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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29791953">the fates' lieutenant</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/pocketsizedquasar/pseuds/pocketsizedquasar'>pocketsizedquasar</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Moby Dick - Herman Melville</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Fluff and Angst, Late Night Conversations, M/M, Nonbinary Character, Suicidal Thoughts, he/they queequeg!, ishmael is also trans but it's not mentioned, just a brief discussion but i'm tagging that just in case, starbuck is mentioned but not super present, they both know they're going to die, you should just know. he's trans.</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-03-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 16:31:56</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,870</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29791953</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/pocketsizedquasar/pseuds/pocketsizedquasar</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>“It so chanced, that after the Parsee’s disappearance, I was he whom the Fates ordained to take the place of Ahab’s bowsman, when that bowsman assumed the vacant post; the same, who, when on the last day the three men were tossed from out of the rocking boat, was dropped astern.” - Epilogue<br/>Or, on the night before the Pequod is to sink, Ishmael makes a choice.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Ishmael/Queequeg (Moby Dick)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>9</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>the fates' lieutenant</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>mind the content warning in the tags. it's basically just canon-typical ishmael is depressed.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The harpooner’s quarters are quiet now. Tobacco smoke still hanging in the air like an elegy. Echoes of helpless wishes of “good luck” and “be careful” and “maybe that white whale will turn out to be an easy catch after all” clinging to the wood paneling and dust and moonlight.</p><p>Tash and Dag have left, now, leaving Ishmael and Queequeg alone in the tiny room, and perhaps were it earlier in their voyage, perhaps were it not two-days-into-frenzied-chase and three-years-into-relentless-hunt, perhaps had Fedallah not just died and all the whaleboats not just stove and their ever-courageous first mate not just given up entirely, they would have joked about giving the latter two some <em> privacy </em> . “You know, in case there's anything you want to <em> do </em> for the last time.” Perhaps were it another time.</p><p>As it were, they left quietly. Solemnly. Tight hugs and tight smiles and empty promises.</p><p>In twenty-four hours or so, the White Whale will wreak hell upon their claw-footed ship, drowning her and all her crew. The harpooners will be dead, drowned, clinging to a sinking ship and dragged to hell down with her.</p><p>But for now, the harpooners’ quarters are quiet, and Ishmael and Queequeg are alone.</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>For several moments, there is nothing. They stand, shoulders brushing, facing the just-closed door, rough fingers and ragged breathing both tangled together.</p><p>There is little comfort, here. Though, they try.</p><p>After far too long, Queequeg turns, takes Ishmael’s face in his hands. They kiss his teary eyelids, his forehead, the corner of his mouth. Ishmael snakes his arms round his husband’s waist, clings to them like storms cling to wind and tucks himself against Queequeg's body. Neither of them speaks.</p><p>Then, Queequeg. “What did Starbuck want?” He strokes Ishmael’s hair.</p><p>Ishmael only shakes his head against Queequeg and squeezes him tighter. </p><p>Queequeg pulls away, tilts Ishmael's face up toward them. “What was it?”</p><p>Ishmael averts his eyes. Tries to ignore the memory of Starbuck, glassy-eyed and empty, pulling him aside after the day's chase, after the revelation that Fedallah had drowned, after the first of three prophecies had fallen into place. Tries to forget the way Starbuck, always cautious and courageous, couldn’t bring himself to meet Ishmael’s eyes as he formed his request. Something about <em> the captain needs a replacement in his boat </em> , something like <em> and the other bowsmen were injured in the hunt, </em> something like <em> but you — </em> we <em> were not — out there today. </em> Ishmael had understood, then. In twenty-four hours or so the White Whale would wreak hell upon Ahab’s whaleboat, drowning him and Ishmael in it, and he would be dead, drowned, clinging to the captain's vow and dragged to hell down with it.</p><p>Starbuck had not waited for an answer. He'd left Ishmael on deck, shivering, still unable to meet his eyes.</p><p>Ishmael has tried not to think about it.</p><p>Queequeg is persistent, though. “What happened?”</p><p>Ishmael sighs, pulls away from them, perches himself instead on the edge of Queequeg’s bunk. He folds his hands in his lap as they sit beside him.</p><p>“‘Mae, please.”</p><p><em> If I tell you, you'll try to stop me </em>.</p><p>“Talk to me.”</p><p><em> I could never keep anything from you </em>.</p><p>“I, ah—” Ishmael sighs. No use dancing around it. “I was asked to join Ahab’s crew tomorrow.” Queequeg sucks in a breath. “T-to replace the—to replace Fedallah.”</p><p>“<em> No </em>,” Queequeg says, firmly. Predictably.</p><p>“Queequeg, I—”</p><p>“You won’t. I won’t let you.”</p><p>“I don’t — there isn’t much of a choice, love.”</p><p>“I’ll go.”</p><p>“No, you<em> won’t </em>.”</p><p>Queequeg's voice raises, his accent thickening with frustration. “He was a harpooner. They should replace him with harpooner. I won’t—”</p><p>Ishmael grabs Queequeg's hands. “Queequeg. I am <em> not </em> going to lose you again,” he says, brain wracked with the memory of Queequeg in his coffin, cold and frail and withering away with the illness that almost took them. “This isn’t your burden to bear.”</p><p>An incredulous scoff. “And it’s <em> yours </em>?”</p><p>Ishmael stammers helplessly for several seconds. “I won’t — I am not going to put that on you, Queequeg.”</p><p>“Then someone else.”</p><p>“Queequeg—”</p><p>“<em> Anyone </em> else! It doesn’t —  It doesn’t need to be you—” Queequeg shouts, even as Ishmael <em> knows </em>they do not mean it, knows this is only their desperation overriding their usual level-headed calmness.</p><p>“You <em> know </em> I can’t do that—” he says, even as he so desperately <em> wants </em>to.</p><p>“Why <em> not </em>?” Queequeg isn’t yelling, still ever mindful of the thin walls in the steerage, but their voice is heated enough that Ishmael shrinks away, curling into himself with all the resignation of a man on the gallows. Queequeg sighs at that, reaching a hand across the emptiness between them. “Yeah, I— I know.”</p><p>“It—it was <em> given </em> to me. It's <em> my </em> fate to deal with—”</p><p>“<em> Fuck </em> that—”</p><p>“I don’t like it, but it—I can't fight <em> Fate </em>, love; if nothing else, this God-awful chase has proven that much—”</p><p>Queequeg, overlapping: “No, don’t you <em> dare </em> , don’t you <em> dare </em> say that; I am <em> not </em> going to let you <em> die </em> chasing his <em> monster </em> just because you—you have some <em> stupid </em> idea that—”</p><p>“Queequeg—”</p><p>“—that you <em> deserve </em> any of this, that you—you’re just— <em> looking </em> for another way out again—”</p><p>“Queequeg, <em> please </em>,” Ishmael yells, immediately flinching at the volume of his own voice. Queequeg frowns down at him. “Please, just listen,” he whispers. </p><p>Queequeg grits their teeth. Lets out a sigh, frustration giving way to empty, helpless fear. Ishmael <em> hates </em> it, hates the powerless look on Queequeg's face, <em> Queequeg </em> , his brave Queequeg; he hates the captain and the ship and the whale and the mate and the shipowners and the crew and the <em> world </em> that forced this empty despair into Queequeg’s bright, brilliant eyes, hates his own helplessness to take it away. More than anything, he wishes he could agree with them. Shove the burden onto someone else. Let himself be selfish for once, let himself cling to this bit of blessing he’s found in this otherwise rotten world.</p><p>Instead, he takes their hands again. Rubs his thumbs along their palms. “W-whatever you want to call it. Fate or chance or—or just—<em> rotten </em> luck. This — this was given to me. Blame the captain if you like. Or Starbuck. But I—” and he takes a deep breath, steadying himself. He makes a choice. “I am not going to put that <em> death sentence </em> on anyone else.” He can see Queequeg start a retort again, but he pushes forward: “And I’m not just—Queequeg, I will <em> fight </em> this, I will do everything I can, everything in my power to make sure I come back to you. I — This isn't just — me giving up. I promise you. I promise you I will fight with everything I have to make it home to you again.”</p><p>Queequeg’s hands shake in Ishmael's. He purses his lips, blinks several times, ducks his head and averts his eyes. Ishmael raises a hand to their cheek, unsurprised to find a wet tear beneath his thumb. He brushes it away, presses a kiss to their temple. </p><p>Queequeg has never been one to give up easily, though, and he starts, feebly, again. “‘Mae…”</p><p>“I know.” Queequeg acquiesces, then, leans in, folds himself against Ishmael's body. They tuck their head between his neck and shoulder, hold him tight against their chest. “I know, love,” Ishmael says against their skin, as Queequeg’s breathing rises and falls against him. He leans back, taking Queequeg’s face in his hands. “Whatever happens tomorrow, know that I will spend the rest of my life loving you. Whether I die tomorrow or in fifty years. Know that.”</p><p>Queequeg squints his eyes shut, crying in earnest now, quiet tears trailing down his cheeks. He shakes his head. “I do.” They turn their cheek against Ishmael's palm, kiss the rough and calloused skin there. </p><p>For a long moment, neither of them says anything. The quiet is broken by the waves on the hull outside, thrumming against the walls of their tiny room. Ishmael tries to ignore it, tries to focus instead on the sound of Queequeg breathing, the feeling of their heart beating against their chest pressed to his.</p><p>“It isn’t, you know,” he mumbles against Queequeg.</p><p>“Isn’t what?”</p><p>“This isn’t me just — looking for a way out.”</p><p>Queequeg tilts his head back to look at Ishmael. </p><p>“I—I came out here wanting that. Looking for that.” He shrugs. “A way to be close to death that didn't depend on me.”</p><p>Queequeg knows this, of course. Knows Ishmael’s quiet, passive acceptance of death and dying, remembers him writing his will because it was easier to pretend he'd already died, remembers "<em> it’s like I survived myself" </em> and <em> “my death and burial were locked inside my chest” </em> and <em> "you saved my life, you know," </em>remembers a dozen nights where Ishmael would awaken, crying and frightened and helpless, in his arms. </p><p>“This isn’t that, love.” Ishmael cups Queequeg’s face in his hands. His voice is steady, though his eyes and hands are shaking. “I—I didn’t have a choice, then. Not really. I just...went to sea because there was nothing else for me to do. Nowhere to go. But I’m making a choice now.” He presses his forehead to Queequeg's, a familiar gesture. Queequeg's arms snake around his waist. “I had nothing to live for then. I have something to die for now.”</p><p>Queequeg huffs, an empty, hollow ghost of a laugh. Their brilliant, dark eyes still glint with tears. “I love you,” he says, and Ishmael smiles, well and truly <em> smiles </em> at that, cannot stop his own tears from coming now as Queequeg gathers him up in their arms, one hand cupping his neck and the other firmly pressed into his back. “I still think this is — <em> ridiculous </em>,” they mumble, and Ishmael doesn’t have the heart or the desire to comment on the painfully forced levity edging their voice. </p><p>“I love you, too.”</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>In twenty-four hours or so, the White Whale wreaks hell on their claw-footed ship, drowning her and all her crew. The White Whale wreaks hell upon Ahab's whaleboat, drowning him and the sailors in it. The <em> Pequod </em> sinks, Queequeg and all the rest dragged to hell down with her. </p><p>Ishmael survives. </p><p>Born up by Queequeg's coffin that, <em> rising with great force </em>, surges up to meet him, hold him, drift him off to safety, Ishmael survives. </p><p>Ishmael wants to believe it is Fate. Wants to believe this was meant to happen, that ever since he first clapped eyes on the wretched <em> Pequod </em> this is how it would end. With his lover's coffin beneath him, swirling tattoos gaping back at him like the cruel imitation it is, with his lover's body behind him, sunken and buried somewhere far below him in the ship Ishmael had chosen. He wants to believe what Ahab had said—something about <em> immutably decreed </em> , something about <em> ‘twas rehearsed by thee and me a billion years before this ocean rolled </em> —wants to believe that he survived only because he was <em> meant </em> to, and Queequeg—</p><p>He knows, though. Even as he spends the rest of his life trying to prove the inevitability of it all, he knows. Some buried part of him, shoved beneath an ocean of denial, of half-baked excuses and pleas to destiny knows. </p><p>He chose this.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>thinking about crossroads &amp; choices &amp; ishmael passively choosing death at the start of the book because he had nothing to live for vs ishmael actively choosing death at the end of the book because he had something to die for. something he loves. then being the one to survive anyways, /because/ of his love.<br/>thinking about ahab's crossroads at the end of the book -- how he can choose to stay on his path, of hatred and vengeance and self-destruction, and die, or choose to heal and hope and love and /live/. how ahab and ishmael both face the same choice. and ishmael over and over again, even in ways the book doesn't show us, chooses to love.<br/>a lot of the emotional impact of the book's epilogue comes from the audience not knowing it was ishmael in ahab's boat on the last day of the chase, not knowing till after the fact, but still, even though it's not a choice we get to see, it is one that he has to make. so here's me dealing with that because i am a self-indulgent &amp; self-aggrandizing bastard<br/>anyways that's my ramble for the day. read my <a href="http://mobydick-thecomic.com">moby dick webcomic</a> if ya want. have a lovely march &lt;3</p></blockquote></div></div>
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